


On the Brink of Tomorrow

by Naemi



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: A little comfort, Dreams, Friendship, Gen, Memories, While in Zona, some hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: The days blend into one another until weeks have passed, months maybe; Murphy can't tell.





	On the Brink of Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deifire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/gifts).



> Dear Deifire—do you know how sometimes, characters start doing their own thing despite your best efforts? See … it's fair to say this is what happened here :o) Either way, I hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> [This fic is set between seasons three and four and has about two tiny canon divergences that you might even miss if you squint.]

The world is a mixture of sounds and voices wrapped in cotton candy that tastes like ash. Warren licks her lips, but her mouth is dry, and the taste won't go away. When she opens her eyes, she faces the same darkness as before. Her body feels light, as if she's floating, but when she reaches out, only air sifts through her fingers.

In a distance that seems eons away, she spots a speck of light. For a heartbeat, she thinks it must be _the_ light, but the thought is as surreal as her surroundings, and she knows deep down that this isn't the end of her journey.

What it is, though, she can't tell.

A fatigue unlike any she's ever known weighs heavy on her and forces her eyes closed again, only for a minute, only until the leaden feeling has passed. Only until she can figure out what to do now.

~ ~ ~

The days blend into one another until weeks have passed, months maybe; Murphy can't tell. For all the amazement and beauty that is Zona—for all the reenacting of Life Pre-Apocalypse—his head and heart aren't fully in the game as long as he's got a sickroom to visit. And visit he does.

Every day, he enters the blinding white space in his blinding white suit and shows his blinding white teeth in a smile that nobody can see. Neither this routine nor Warren's status ever change, and yet part of him that he hadn't really known existed clings to the distant shimmer of hope that one day, her wide-open eyes will focus again.

At first, he felt weird sitting by her bedside not knowing what to say or do, and so he just watched her and let his mind wander: back to the Good Old Days, back to when they had a mission, back to anything that masked the pain of seeing a warrior like Roberta Warren rendered completely helpless—and because of him, no less.

Over time, whenever the silence weighed too heavy, Murphy started sharing his thoughts with her, until it became part of his daily routine. Other than the doctors looking after her occasionally, no one could possibly overhear him, and he learned to tell their arrival not by the time of day, but by their footfall in the empty hallways. They wouldn’t surprise him, and he doesn't run the risk of anyone finding him reminiscing. And as for Warren—even if she's in a state where the mind records spoken words, then all the better. For one, she won't judge, and for two, he hopes to reach her, to bring her back.

So far, he failed to do just that, but that doesn't mean he won't keep trying.

~ ~ ~

“Warren.”

Someone shakes her by the shoulder and she jolts awake. Her hand finds the gun at her hip faster than her eyes find focus.

“Murphy.” She exhales slowly. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. We're all peachy. Still stuck in apocalyptic limbo, you know, but peachy.”

“Then why did you wake me?”

He shrugs. “You woke me. Had quite the story to tell, apparently. I think you were yelling at me, too.”

Tilting her head to the side, Warren rolls her eyes. A reply on her lips that she swallows down—it's not worth the effort—she looks past Murphy and draws in her surroundings. In the still of the night, nothing moves except the leaves on the trees and the flames of a dying campfire. To her immediate right, Murphy's crawling back into his sleeping bag. Beside him, she can make out the contours of two people she figures are Doc and Addy. Turning to her left, she finds 10K asleep.

“Who's keeping watch?”

“Who do you think?” Murphy mumbles.

Warren squints her eyes and scans their camp, but in the scarce light, it takes her a full minute to spot the figure standing hidden in the darkness by the treeline. Her heart skips a beat when an errant ray of firelight flickers over the side of the person's face.

“Vasquez?” The word, a dead man's name, leaves her mouth on a breathless whisper.

A low snarl behind her makes her jump to her feet and spin around. The outlines of a rotting face so close to her that she should choke on the stench of decay melt away before her eyes.

~ ~ ~

Murphy enters the room that smells of antiseptics and freshly washed linens and slides in his usual chair. His smile is brittle; her face is blank. He leans forward and reaches for her hand, but instead of taking it in his—something he doesn't dare do for reasons unknown—he trails his fingers over her wrist and withdraws again.

~ ~ ~

“That's some bad gash you got there.”

Warren blinks until the world consists of familiar shapes. Before her, Murphy's hand hesitates in mid-air, and she's glad for it. It's not that she resents his touch, but—“It's nothing. I've had worse.”—they got bigger problems than a few fresh battle scars. California is still an apocalypse away, and it feels like time is running out.

Warren smiles when Murphy frowns. She knows from the look on his face that he's about to crack some dumb joke, and her mind fumbles for something to say that might stop him. Nothing comes to her, but as if he read her mood and cared for once, Murphy just turns his attention to the kitchen cabinets. Hinges creak and dust rises as he opens one door after the other on the search for anything that might prevent the group from starving.

Heaving a sigh, Warren goes about checking her side of the room.

“Bingo.”

“What'cha got?”

They turn to face each other simultaneously. This time, the smile's on Murphy's face, and it's genuine, too.

“A dinner for champions, survivors, and anyone short of resorting to eating live bugs.” He holds up two large cans and slowly tilts them from one side to the other to emphasize the treasure inside. “Canned spaghetti. Disgusting as fuck, but at least it'll last through seven apocalypses and five circles of Hell.”

Warren can't help laughing. “Looks like we got a dinner date. God bless the mistreatment of food.” She reaches for the can, and suddenly, the world starts spinning.

~ ~ ~

“Hello, Roberta,” Murphy says and almost chokes on these two simple words. He had this dream again last night, the one where he watches Lucy falling while he stands rooted to the edge of that cliff. Her voice—his name in a scream—echoes off the mountains a million times over until the frantic cawing of a flock of crows startles his body into action. He falls to his knees, crawls forward, and just as he's about to reach for his daughter well out of reach, he jolts awake—every time.

The more often Murphy has this dream, the harder it gets to shake off its remnants; the feeling of dread clings to him like a second skin, as if to tell him it isn't over yet.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment.

“I didn't think I'd ever say that, but I really need you to kick me in the butt about … a few things, really.” His laughter resembles a raspy hiccup. “Funny, isn't it, how you never know to appreciate what you have until it's gone. They keep telling you that, but … I didn't think it was true.”

~ ~ ~

It takes Warren a moment to realize the carousel is only in her head; she's not a five-year-old whose father made good on his promise to take her to the playground; she's not a teenager who spends her last bucks on a weird spinning ride that makes her puke her guts out after.

It's in her head, and she'll be fine. Even though she retches and tastes bile and something like the dying hope of all of humanity, she'll be fine.

Someone pulls her to her feet, and it's only then she realizes she fell, crumbled under the weight of the trials life keeps throwing at her. Usually, she knows to rein in the despair because if she doesn't, then who's gonna lead the group? Who's gonna make sure they'll all survive? They chose to put their faith in her, and she chose to accept the responsibility, and there's no room for such a thing as despair in Warren's world.

And yet, as she drinks from a canteen Sun Mei offers her, she feels it deep in her bones. Javier is gone. Hector is gone. Even 10K has slipped through her fingers and is lost to the cause of the blue devil that used to be her friend. These days, it's hard for hope to prevail.

“Are you okay, chief?”

Warren turns to crack a forced smile at Doc. “Has the world gone to Hell?”

“In a handbasket.”

“Then there's your answer right there.” Gently, she shakes off the hands that support her and stands straight. “No rest for the wicked. We got a false prophet to stop.”

“And 10K to save.”

Warren and Doc lock eyes. The kid's not her priority, not anymore, but the pleading look in the old man's eyes makes her nod.

“If he can be saved. But if he's too far gone … If he's standing between me and Murphy, I won't …” A new fit of nausea cuts her short. She bends over and lets her pain and and fear and anger and everything in-between stain the soil in a mad pattern.

~ ~ ~

“Anyway. I've come to lighten the mood, not drag it down. See, yesterday, when we were golfing and I was just about to choose the perfect iron for the perfect swing, I suddenly remembered when those idiots kidnapped me. You know, that trip to MESA and those Viagra Zs?” This time, Murphy's voice supports his attempt at laughing. “In hindsight, that was almost fun, wasn't it?”

He leans back in his chair. His gaze rests on Warren's peaceful yet blank face. Her features are the same, but her new hair color, courtesy of the bullet they shared, is still unfamiliar, still seems odd to him, even though he witnessed the gradual change. In a way, it's physical proof she'll never be the same again. Neither will he.

He shakes his head and squints his eyes, and reality warps into something he can almost handle.

“Truth is, Roberta, I'm running out of stories to tell. Good ones, anyway. I guess you noticed. And I'm also tired of …” He hesitates. Part of him would rather he bite off his tongue than allow the words to roll over his lips; as always, that side wins. Being honest with her is fine; being honest with himself, he can't handle well.

With a shrug and a smirk, Murphy stands. He smooths down his jacket and flips sunlight off his lapel. “Your beauty sleep has lasted long enough, don't you think? I mean—” he spreads his arms and slowly turns in a half circle, “—you're really missing out on a fabulously Z-free world, and if that isn't a party to join, I don't know what is.” Cocking his head to the side, he adds: “You're not counting on being kissed awake, are you? Because let me tell you: I don't see that happening.”

~ ~ ~

The rain running down the windows wipes away blood and gore like a car wash of doom. Spatters of red and brown run together, form wild swirls, and blend into a madman's drawing.

Warren tears her gaze away and straight to the man whose presence right beside her both unsettles and soothes her.

“Do you think they're safe out there?” Murphy's voice is unusually serious, and his features have become tight lines of worry. “Do you think …?”

“I'm sure they're fine.”

Staring out the window, Murphy remains silent. Warren can't recall when she last saw him like this, and while it rarely shines through, she really likes this side of him. Serious Murphy equals honest Murphy equals something to rely on, to relate to: like the touch of a friendly hand on a shaking shoulder or a ragged breath fleeing a heaving chest. Like the simplicity of a moment shared in silence.

“I didn't know you cared that much,” Warren says. It's neither quip nor accusation, and it makes Murphy turn to her with a sad smile so tiny that she may as well be imagining it.

“You have no idea, Roberta. I have no idea, most of the time.”

It's then and there that she almost loses herself in the depth of his eyes and the idea of the man behind the mask.

Instead, she takes a small step back and lowers her gaze.

~ ~ ~

A sudden feeling of defeat surges through Murphy even as he's uttering the words. He lets his arms fall down by his sides. None of this is right. None of this is fair. With a shaky exhale, he runs a hand through his hair.

“I'm sorry, Roberta.” It comes out a hoarse whisper. “You don't deserve that. Not this, and certainly not me being the dick I know I am.”

The faint echo of rubber soles on a concrete floor breaks the silence of the endless halls leading to this very room. Murphy turns his head towards the door and listens. They're close; he's running out of time. Again. Always.

Slowly, he turns back, and the cold hand clasping his heart tightens its grip when he looks down on his friend.

“I promise I'll be better. I promise _you'll_ be better. You'll be back, and I'll be here, and despite all that happened, we will be okay.”

The footsteps stop outside the room, and the door opens.

Murphy cracks a smile at Warren and briefly touches his index finger to the side of his nose.

“See you tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

When Warren looks back up, confusion knits her brow. She spins around. Where Murphy stood merely a heartbeat ago, the wind blows a crumpled paper bag down an otherwise empty alley.

She huffs, and although it makes her feel silly, she does it again.

_See you tomorrow._

The words echo through the cold night, and despite knowing it's yet another trick her mind is playing on her, Warren feels the truth they carry like she feels her heart beating against her chest.

She briefly touches her index finger to the side of her nose.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispers into the ever-present darkness. “Whenever tomorrow may come.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Visit my LJ-community [Bunny Bash](https://bunnybash.livejournal.com) to leave me a prompt at any time.]
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


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